"Have a seat, marshal," he said. "And tell me what I can do for you."
"I thought mebbe yu could give me some information which might help in a matter I'm lookin' into," Sudden explained.
"I'm at your service."
"I've heard that yu had here, some years back, a man named Jesse Sark. Is that so?" The Warden rose, reached down a heavy register, and turned the pages. "Here we are," he said. "Jesse Sark, clerk, convicted of robbing the bank where he was employed, and sent down for two years. There's a picture of him, if that interests you." It did; the marshal stared at it in astonishment. "That's not the fella," he said disappointedly.
"It was taken when he came in, and the name is an uncommon one."
"He must 'a' changed considerable," Sudden reflected aloud.
The Warden looked up sharply. "He probably has--men do when they're under the turf, I believe," he replied drily, and added, "Sark died just before his sentence was completed--we had an epidemic of fever in the prison." Sudden's face fell. "Seems I've been followin' a blind trail an' bothered yu for nothin'," he said. A thought occurred to him. "There's just one point: did yore Sark have a confederate called Kent?" The Warden consulted another volume, and, after a short search, pointed to a page. "This must be the one : Ezra Kent, convicted with, and sentenced to the same punishment as Sark. Discharged at the end of his term. His portrait is here also. Why, what is the matter, marshal?" For Sudden's expression was one of complete puzzlement. "But that's the man I know as Jesse Sark," he cried. "Yu couldn't 'a' got the pictures mixed up, I s'pose?"
"Not possible," was the reply. "And if it had happened, this man"--tapping Kent's photograph--"would be in his grave."
"Shore, that don't explain it," Sudden agreed. "Well, seh, I was beginnin' to fear I'd wasted my time, but what yu've told me is goin' to be mighty helpful, though there's some straightenin' out yet."
"Anything more I can do?"
"If yu could give me a writin' that Jesse Sark is dead," the marshal suggested. "Somebody may want to call me a liar." The Warden smiled, his gaze taking in the lithe, muscular frame, resolute jaw, and steady eyes. "Hardly a likely occurrence, I imagine, but in case ..." He wrote a few lines, signed them, and passed over the paper. "That will save any argument." Sudden thanked him, and stowed away the document.
The Warden observed that the visitor's eyes were roving along the orderly rows of registers. "Records of rascality--. a sad indictment of the human race."
"I was admirin' the system. I s'pose yu can turn up partic'lars of any person who has been through yore han's?"
"Certainly. Have you any name in mind?"
"Two--Webb an' Peterson." It did not take long. The first name appeared twice, but when he saw the portraits, the marshal shook his head; the second name was not to be found.
"We don't seem to have entertained your--friends," the Warden said.
"It was on'y a chance, but friends ain't just the right word." Looking at the set face, which had suddenly become cold and grim, the man from the East realized that he was plumbing unknown deeps; he would not have cared to be one of those two men. The visitor had picked up his hat, and was speaking:
"Yu been mighty good, seh. I'm obliged."
"Glad to be of use, marshal," he replied. "Come or send, if you need further assistance." Getting his horse, Sudden set off at once for home, his mind full of the astounding discovery he had made. Jesse Sark was no more, and Kent was personating him in order to steal the Dumb-bell range. A friend of the dead man, he would know enough about him to make the imposture possible, the more so as Sark had never been seen in Welcome.
Lyman must know, and probably the whole plan was his contrivance.
"He certainly has Kent cinched, an' there ain't much doubt as to who drilled Amos," Sudden mused.
The latter part of the interview recurred to him. That his final inquiry proved a failure did not disappoint him; he had expected it. "They'll have swapped names frequent by now," he muttered. "Allasame, I'll find 'em." (How he eventually kept his promise has been told in another place.1) "Get some action on them triflin' legs o' yourn, yu dollop o' darkness." The horse whinnied a reply, and lengthened its stride into a long, easy lope which sent the ground sliding beneath its feet and could be maintained for hours. Nevertheless, when the sun, a red ball of fire, was slowly sinking behind the western sky-line, he had still about ten miles to cover. But this contented him, and he eased the black to a more leisurely pace as they breasted a slope mottled with patches of brush. Here his complacency suffered a rude awakening.
He had bent forward to stroke the shiny neck of his steed when the silence was routed by the roar of a rifle and his hat went skimming into the dust. Instantly he flung himself headlong from the saddle as a second bullet followed the first. He landed on all-fours and scuttled behind a near-by clump of scrub. Nigger dashed off, but his master knew he would not go far.
Peeping through his cover, he could see small clouds of smoke vanishing above another bunch of bushes some fifty feet away. He shook a branch to the left of his position, and dropped flat; a rifle crashed and the slug cut the twigs above his head; he fired at the flash, more to gratify his resentment than with any hope of hitting the hidden marksman.
Lying broadside on to the enemy, he agitated the foliage with a foot. Immediately a bullet tore through the spot, and he sent two quick shots to the right and left of the spirt of flame, at once shifting his own position. It was well he did so, for the reply was instant. Silence ensued, and Sudden puzzled over the problem of putting an end to this strange duel. It was difficult, for there was no cover between the parties, and until dark came, neither could leave his shelter. A possibility suggested itself. Prone on his stomach, a revolver in each hand, he fired a dozen shots, spaced at about a foot apart and aimed at the bottom of the bushes behind which his antagonist must be lying. Then, reloading rapidly, he waited for the response.
None came. Half an hour passed and nothing happened. It was now almost dark, and the marshal resolved to run a risk. Gun in hand, he stood up and backed away, keeping the friendly scrub between himself and the enemy. Then, when he judged he could not be seen in the deepening dusk, he circled round and approached from the rear, moving with the stealth of an Indian. A shapeless blotch lay on the ground, a rifle beside it.
"I've got yu covered; keep still," he warned.
Getting no response, he stepped forward, turned the senseless form over, and struck a match. The man's eyes opened; it was Squint.
"For Gawd's sake, gimme a drink," he croaked.
A long, low whistle and Nigger appeared from the shadows. The marshal unbuckled his water-bottle and held it to the wounded man's lips.
"How much is Sark payin' yu for this?"
"Five hundred," Squint replied, and then, "What you drivin' at, Sark ain't "
"Too late, fella; second thoughts are not allus best," Sudden said. "Where yu hit?"
"In the chest, an' it hurts like blazes. Hop yore hoss--I guess I'm through."
"Shucks, yu'll swing yet," the other retorted, as he examined the hurt and fixed a crude bandage. "Think yu can make it to Welcome?"
"Don't wanta go there," Squint protested.
"O' course, I could waste another ca-tridge an' plant yuhere," Sudden said meditatively, and this, being what the bushwhacker himself would have done, closed the argument.
His horse was fetched from a thicket where it had been hidden, he was hoisted into the saddle, and they took the road.
"I was told yu'd thrown in with Mullins," Sudden hazarded.